


I'll be Seein' You

by eggsbenni221



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - Helen Fielding
Genre: A/U, Drama, F/M, Family, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 19:18:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggsbenni221/pseuds/eggsbenni221
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(WARNING: MAY CONTAIN PLOT SPOILERS): A revisionist version of MATB, because, well, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll be Seein' You

**Author's Note:**

> I began writing this just after the news broke about Mark's death, but before the novel's actual release, so I envisioned a scenario in which he might have conceivably been mistaken for dead, because as much as I tried, I couldn't find a way out of the very definitive outcome that Helen Fielding gave us. The situation into which I've placed Mark is entirely fictitious, though inspired by recent events surrounding the imprisonment of Greenpeace activists in Russia. My research into the logistics was not extensive, and any inaccuracies are my own errors. Credit goes to M for giving me some of the ideas. 

I'll Be Seein' You: a Bridget Jones Fic  
By Eggsbenni221  
Words: a little over 5000; I lost track with the revisions.  
Rating: T  
Summary: (WARNING: MAY CONTAIN PLOT SPOILERS): A revisionist version of MATB, because, well, of course.

Disclaimer: The Author does not own these characters; they are the property of Helen Fielding. No money is being made on this work, and no copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Note: I began writing this just after the news broke about Mark's death, but before the novel's actual release, so I envisioned a scenario in which he might have conceivably been mistaken for dead, because as much as I tried, I couldn't find a way out of the very definitive outcome that Helen Fielding gave us. The situation into which I've placed Mark is entirely fictitious, though inspired by recent events surrounding the imprisonment of Greenpeace activists in Russia. My research into the logistics was not extensive, and any inaccuracies are my own errors. Credit goes to M for giving me some of the ideas. 

  


"I'll be seein' you  
in all the old familiar places  
that this heart of mine embraces  
all day through.

In that small café  
the park across the way  
the children's carousel  
the chestnut tree, the wishing well.

I'll be seein' you  
in every lovely summers day  
and everything that's bright and gay  
I'll always think of you that way.  
I'll find you in the morning sun  
and when the night is new  
I'll be lookin' at the moon, but I'll be seein' you."

  


\---2008---

  
The clock above Mark's desk ticked its way toward 1.00AM, its moving hand the only sound in his hushed study. Upstairs, his family slept, their dreams untroubled, blissfully unaware that what he was about to do might irrevocably change their lives. Closing his eyes as he paced the room, he pictured Bridget curled beneath the covers, unconscious of the empty space beside her as he slipped from bed; Billy, half-tangled in his sheets as usual, the night lamp beside the bed casting a warm glow over his face; Mabel, her pink mouth a tiny, delicately-curved 'o', her dimpled fingers splayed as if reaching to touch the wisps of dreams that fluttered past in the night. God, how could he do this? Standing now in the center of his study, his conscience underwent a fierce battle as the call to moral justice and his paternal instinct each tugged at his willpower. Several weeks previously, a group of Greenpeace activists protesting oil exploration in Malabo had been imprisoned by the Guinean government and subject to brutal torture; several of the protesters had reportedly been killed. When Mark had announced to Bridget his intention to aid the activists, he had, with a measure of guilt, omitted the last detail. If she had suspected the danger to which he would be exposing himself, she gave no sign of it. Lying beside her earlier, he had apologized for having to leave her so soon after Mabel had been born, and she had smiled bravely, if a bit sadly.  
"I knew eventually the call to save the world would be too tempting a proposition to turn down."  
"I hadn't realized my desire to be relieved of the responsibility of changing nappies would be so transparent."  
"You're a good man, Mark," Bridget had whispered, patting his cheek, her eyes shining. "And I love you."

He pictured that look of admiration now as he sat at his desk, struggling to summon the words he knew he must will himself to write.

\---2013---  
"I never want to touch another wine glass for as long as I live," Bridget groaned, dropping wearily onto the living-room sofa.  
"Allow me to amend that statement," said Mark, regarding his wife with an affectionate smile as he slipped an arm around her. "You never want to touch another wine glass filled with washing-up liquid."  
Bridget grinned. "I suppose that would be more accurate, yes," she admitted.  
"I did offer to help with the washing up."  
"And I told you: the guest of honor never does the washing up." Nearly ten weeks had elapsed since Mark's return home, a month of which he had spent in hospital. Following his release, he had spent nearly all of the last six weeks with his children, whose adjustment to his sudden re-entrance into their lives had been considerably less fraught with turmoil than he had anticipated. After being held prisoner in Equatorial Guinea with the activists he had been employed to aid, Mark had been listed among the dead in a prison riot, though he had in fact survived, albeit gravely injured. The lack of a British Embassy in Equatorial Guinae together with his condition resulted in significant difficulties, though one of his fellow survivors—a Greenpeace activist who knew the local language—had managed to make contact with the honorary British consulate. The combination of physical and emotional trauma had left Mark with no recollection of the events surrounding the riot; indeed, had Bridget not been at his side during his first coherent moments, his life prior to finding himself in a London hospital might never have existed. While Bridget had remained with him during his four-week stay in hospital, they had deemed it best to postpone his reunion with the children until his homecoming, which gave Bridget time to prepare them. The therapist Mark had been seeing during his recovery had assured him that while the entire family would have access to appropriate counseling services to see them through their readjustment, the children's natural resilience would most likely be their greatest asset.

\---Flashback, six weeks previous---

  
Never would Mark forget that first moment he beheld his children again, processing the passage of five years in the snapshots of their faces. Mabel stood close to Bridget, the briefest flicker of recognition in her eyes as she regarded Mark. He had, naturally, expected her reticence, though his heart ached to think of himself as practically a stranger to his own daughter.  
"Daddy?" whispered Mabel. Her eyes were her mother's; big and blue and wide with curiosity.  
"It's all right, Mabel," Bridget said gently, placing a hand on the small of her back to nudge her forward. Mabel approached timidly, studying Mark through her lashes.  
"Daddy, is it…really you?"  
"It's really me." At that moment, Mark wanted nothing more than to sweep Mabel up in his arms and cling to her as much to reaffirm the reality of her presence as his own. Instead, he crouched in front of her, his face on a level with her own. As he debated whether or not to extend his arms for an embrace, Mabel made up her own mind and wound herself around him in a fierce hug.  
"You came back! You came back!"  
"Of course I came back, love," Mark whispered into her hair. "I couldn't stay away from my Mabel another day." There would be time for explanations, time for her to comprehend, when she was able, the truth of her father's long absence from her life, but any doubts Mark had about temporarily glossing over the reality were swallowed by the overwhelming sensation of sharing his first true embrace with his daughter. Mabel's delighted laughter brought tears to his eyes. Struggling to compose himself, he straightened, his eyes seeking Billy. Nothing could have prepared him for the shock of seeing his son—of beholding his own features etched on a face that, however much it resembled his own, seemed startlingly unfamiliar. For a long moment, father and son simply gazed at each other, not speaking. Billy stood poker-straight, shoulders rigid, chin raised as he stared at his father.  
"Son," Mark said at last. Billy remained motionless.  
"Billy," murmured Bridget, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Billy, it's all right." Billy glanced up at her, chewing on his bottom lip; then launched himself across the room, straight into Mark's arms. The exuberant force and suddenness of Billy's leap caught Mark by surprise, and he lost his balance. Laughing as he landed hard on the carpet, he buried his face in his son's hair, breathing in that wild boy scent of grass and sweat.  
"Daddy!" exclaimed Billy, his small frame shaking as he struggled to suppress his tears. "I thought—Mummy said you—we thought we'd never see you again!"  
Holding Billy tightly against his chest, Mark pressed a kiss to his brow. "I know," he murmured, rocking his son gently in his arms. "I know, but I'm here now, and everything's all right."  
"Daddy," said Mabel, slipping her arms around his neck again and resting her cheek against his, "you can say the bedtime verse with us now."  
Mark pulled her closer. "Every night," he whispered into her hair. Glancing up, he saw Bridget gazing at the three of them in a confused heap on the floor, tears shining in her eyes.  
"Plenty of room, you know," he said, disengaging one arm and beckoning to her. Smiling, she came and knelt beside him, entangling herself in the many-armed hug. They would be all right, Mark thought as he met Bridget's eyes over the tops of the children's heads.  
\----------  
And they had been, though not without some adjustment given the jarring disruption in their marriage. Mark spent most nights holding tightly to Bridget as she slept beside him, letting the sound of her breathing and the ease with which she curled her body into the crook of his arm ground him in reality. If he let go, even for a moment, he would slide down into darkness and dreams—dreams of locked doors and crying children, dreams from which he awoke bathed in a cold sweat, heart pounding. Then he would feel Bridget's arms around him, pulling him gently back to consciousness, and he would rest his head against her shoulder and close his eyes against the sting of tears.  
Tonight, however, there had been only laughter. Family and friends had naturally wanted to celebrate Mark's return to health and home, but after a quiet reunion with his and Bridget's parents, Bridget had, unbeknown to him, planned a party for the urban family. Everyone had put in an appearance: Daniel, Jude, Tom, and Talitha, Magda and Jeremy, and even a few of the friends Bridget had made during Mark's absence, principally Jake and Rebecca. Even Sharon had surprised everyone and made the journey over from America for the occasion. Surrounded by the people who had walked beside and carried him and Bridget through every adventure of their lives, Mark finally felt he was home.  
"I think this is the most relaxed I've seen you since you came home," said Bridget, taking Mark's hand and pulling him gently from his reverie. "Tonight's done you a world of good."  
Mark smiled. "Yes, it certainly has, though I wish you hadn't gone to such trouble."  
"Consider it five years' worth of anniversaries, birthdays, Christmases, and any other occasion you'd like to add to the list." Bridget snuggled closer to him on the sofa and rested her head against his chest. "Five years," she murmured. "I still can't believe it sometimes."  
Mark bent and brushed his lips against hers. "I'm going to spend the rest of my life making up for it."  
"You're here," said Bridget, wrapping her arms around him in a tight hug. "I think that makes up for everything."  
"Still," he answered, cradling her against him, "if I could turn back time, God knows I would."  
"Shit! That reminds me!" Bridget bounced up suddenly and disentangled herself from Mark's embrace.  
"You still know how to kill a moment, darling," said Mark, endeavoring to conceal his smirk.  
"No, no. It's not that," Bridget said hastily. "I completely forgot! Wait there." Puzzled, Mark watched as she left the room and returned moments later with a brightly-wrapped package in her hand. "From the children and me," she said softly as she deposited it in his lap. "At first I was going to give it to you in front of everyone tonight, kind of make a welcome home presentation of it, but I thought you might prefer to open it in private." Curiously, Mark tore aside the paper to reveal a jeweler's box, inside of which lay a gold wristwatch. Drawing it out, Mark took a moment to admire its simple elegance. The face was set with four tiny diamond chips, but was otherwise unadorned.  
"Do you like it?" asked Bridget tentatively. "It's rather simple, but I thought you'd prefer it. You can wear it every day."  
"It's beautiful, darling."  
"And that's not all." Leaning in closer, Bridget touched a spring on the watch to reveal a chamber containing a small photograph of their family.  
"Bridget, I—" Mark swallowed. "It's lovely."  
"Read the inscription," said Bridget. Through a blur of tears, Mark located, in delicately-etched script, "With love, until the end of time."  
"Billy helped me choose the watch, and Mabel picked the photo."  
"It's—I—Oh, Bridget." Gently setting the box aside, Mark gathered her in his arms, endeavoring with his kiss to communicate what his words hadn't adequately managed to express.  
"That was why I thought you might not want to open it in front of everyone," said Bridget, pressing her lips to the tears sliding down his cheeks. "Mr. Stoicism to a fault." Unable to speak, Mark pulled her closer and buried his face in her hair.  
"We love you, Mark," Bridget murmured against his shoulder. "We love you so much." In response, Mark only tightened his embrace.  
"Bridget," he said finally, brushing away tears with the back of his hand, "in case I neglected to tell you, I'm so very proud of you. You've been so brave through all of this."  
Bridget smiled sadly. "You're held prisoner by a tyrannical government and mistaken for dead, and I'm the one who's been brave? Mark, give yourself a bit of credit for once."  
"Everything is relative," he murmured, caressing her cheek.  
"Well, it wasn't easy," she admitted. "The hardest part was lying in bed at night, wishing I could have just one more word with you, tell you just one more time how much I loved you." Her words stirred something deep in the murky recesses of Mark's memory.  
"Bridget, did you not see my letter?"  
Bridget blinked in confusion. "Letter? What letter? Was this something you left with Jeremy?"  
"No, it was—I left—oh God, I don't believe it." He got swiftly to his feet and headed for his study.  
"Mark, what—"  
"I'll be back in a moment," he said hastily as he left the room. In the study, he stepped over to his desk and began rummaging through the drawers in search of the letter he'd written the night before his departure. Finding nothing, he paced frantically about the room, rubbing his forehead. Where could he have left it? Given the instructions he had left with it, Jeremy would certainly not have neglected it. Turning back to the desk, he swept his hand through the drawers again until his fingers made contact with a heavy volume. Drawing it out, he recognized one of his legal reference books, and as he turned it over in his hand, he began to piece together what might have happened. Only a level of distraction such as he had felt that night would have made him so neglectful as to forget to replace the book on his meticulously organized shelves. He must, he supposed, have consulted it, and in hurriedly slipping the letter into his desk drawer, had inadvertently wedged it into the book. That no one had found it—that no one had indeed dismantled his library and taken proper inventory of the room's possessions—was a detail that Mark's legal brain cried to examine, but he would have to address it later. He opened and shook out the volume, and sure enough, the letter slid out and onto the floor. Mark bent to retrieve it, his eyes welling with sudden tears. All that time—all those years—Bridget had never known, never received his last words to her. They were not his last, of course, Mark reminded himself, but nonetheless; that he had thought to find a way to touch her, even beyond reach, and had never managed to do so filled his heart with such guilt and sadness that it seemed as though a leaded hand were pressing against his chest.  
"Mark?" With the letter still in his hand, he turned to find Bridget standing in the doorway. "I got worried when you—Mark, what's the matter?" Crossing the room, she took him into her arms.  
"Bridget," he whispered, his voice catching on the lump in his throat. "I'm so, so sorry."  
"Mark, what is it?" Wordlessly Mark held out the letter. Bridget took it from him, her eyes widening with comprehension as she read the direction on the flap of the envelope. "Mark, this is—it says that this should only be opened in the event of your…death, and this is,"—she paused—"your handwriting." He nodded. "Mark, I don't understand."  
Mark dropped into the chair beside his desk and buried his face in his hands. "The night before I left, I wrote that letter and left it for you and the children, in the event of, well—in any case, I intended to leave it for Jeremy to find, and in my haste, I neglected to properly dispose of it."  
"Oh, Mark." Bridget dropped to her knees beside the chair and wrapped her arms around him. "It's all right."  
"It isn't," he insisted. "All that time it was sitting there, and it might have offered you comfort."  
"Mark, it's all right. You're here now, and that's what matters most." Mark only continued to cry quietly into his hands. Gently Bridget reached up and lowered his hands from his face. "Would it make you feel any better if I read it?"  
"It seems rather pointless now," he said.  
"Nothing is pointless if it helps you."  
"I suppose it would," he admitted. Bridget gave his hand a squeeze before opening the envelope and removing its contents.

My dear family,  
As I write this, you are all safely, peacefully asleep. It seems strange to find myself sitting here, putting so much painstaking thought into words I pray you will never have to read, but I've begun, and so I will continue.

I depart tomorrow on a journey from which it is likely I may not return. Bridget, my love, I am sorry for concealing the true nature of the danger this assignment entails. I saw little point in giving you further cause to worry. If I've done wrong, forgive me. I find it hard to begin this letter, because I hardly know what I might say to assuage your grief when you read it. I will only say that the pain in my heart as I write is equal to that which I know you will feel when you read this.

First and foremost, I am sorry; sorry for leaving you, sorry for the Christmases and birthdays I will never celebrate with you. Bridget, do your best to see that the children never feel abandoned by my loss; remind them every day how much their father loved them, and when they are old enough to understand, teach them to realize that I dedicated my life's work to trying to make the world they live in a better place.

Billy, 'man of the house' is a role I would never have wished to fall on your young shoulders, but you are my son, and I know you will take this responsibility to heart. Look after your sister; love her, protect her, make her laugh, and dry her tears. Take care of your mother. Tell her each day that you love her, and for Heaven's sake, teach her how to program the DVR. Strive every day to be an upright man; when you witness injustice, whether amongst your schoolfellows, your friends, or, later in life, your colleagues, do not turn a blind eye. Be kind and fair in your dealings with others, come by your accomplishments in life honestly, and you will have done me, and yourself, proud.

Mabel, while you may not remember me, never doubt how very much I loved you, my darling girl. I am certain that your laughter will be the light of your mothers' and your brothers' lives. Look up to Billy, but don't allow him, or any other boy, to mistreat you, especially as you grow older. Never let anyone tell you that certain doors are closed to you just because you are a girl. If you are truly your mother's daughter, you will barrel through those doors and show the world how wrong it can still be sometimes. (If you don't, your Auntie Shazzer will likely have something to say about it). Be patient with your mother. I have left her with a difficult job, raising you on her own. As you grow into a young woman, it is my hope that you will be her friend as well as her daughter. Men will, I have no doubt, come in and out of your life, but one of the most valuable lessons you can learn from your mother is the value of female friendship. Finally, my dear Mabel, know and understand this: women in this family read and adore Jane Austen's novels. This is a non-negotiable part of being a Darcy. Accept it with grace and good will.

And now, my Bridget, I direct my words to you. Firstly, I have arranged everything to leave adequate provision for you and the children. Stop rolling your eyes at me. You would have expected nothing less. You will find that my affairs are impeccably in order; I trust Jeremy to assist you in every detail. While my heart aches at the thought of the pain you are enduring, I have every confidence that you will see yourself through this like the strong, confident, woman of substance I know you to be. If any woman is capable of loving her children sufficiently for two parents, that woman is you. I have arranged matters so as to enable you to devote yourself as much as possible to raising Billy and Mabel with as little financial hardship as possible.

Share your memories of me with the children (except, perhaps, the one about me punching their Uncle Daniel. I would prefer them, Billy in particular, to think of me as noble and moral…and helpful in the kitchen, of course. Never send Billy to boarding school; do not permit Mabel to go out with boys until she is at least 16. (My paternal instinct tells me to raise that to 18, but in an endeavor to modernize the Darcy conservatism, I'm willing to negotiate this point). Above all, never, ever forget that I love each of you, very much…just as you are.  
All my love,  
Mark.

Bridget looked up from the letter, wiping tears from her eyes. "You knew," she choked. "Mark, you knew it wasn't safe."  
"I strongly suspected, yes," he replied.  
"And you thought reading this—discovering it after the fact—would have made me feel better?"  
Mark dropped his head into his hands. "All I thought," he said wearily, "was that I had to find a way to leave you with some words of comfort."  
"Mark, I don't want to sound like I'm blaming you, but somehow I don't think the knowledge that all of this could have been prevented would have offered much comfort."  
Mark rose, agitated, and began to pace the room. "Forgive me, but from my position, it does rather sound as if you're casting blame. Bridget, do you have any idea how I agonized over my decision to take that assignment? Do you honestly think I would have left my family like that, put myself in such danger if I didn't think it absolutely necessary?"  
"Mark, I don't know what I'm supposed to think any more. I've hardly been thinking at all the last ten weeks. Every single day you were gone I wished I could close my eyes and believe that when I opened them, you'd be sitting next to me. Sometimes it felt like one long dream I couldn't wake up from, but now, oddly, having you back feels like a dream—one I wish I wouldn't wake up from. When I think of the past five years, looking at Billy and Mabel, watching their school plays and football matches and wishing you could be there, and now I realize you actually could have, how do you think that makes me feel?"  
"I can't imagine it makes you feel any worse than I do at this moment," Mark said quietly. Fighting back another wave of tears, he turned toward the door.  
"I'm sorry," murmured Bridget. "I shouldn't have—"  
"I don't want to talk about it any further right now, if you don't mind." Turning his back on his wife, he left the study. Pausing before the liquor cabinet, he felt her hand on his as he reached for a bottle of scotch.  
"Mark, please."  
He brushed her hand aside, pretending he couldn't see the glisten of tears in her eyes. "I told you I don't want to talk."  
"It's late. Why don't you come up to bed?"  
"I want to be alone right now." Bridget hesitated; then bowed her head and turned away, heading for the staircase without another word.  
\----------  
He was wandering down a darkened corridor, fumbling blindly along the wall. He knew he had to be close; he could hear them calling him. "Daddy! Daddy!" Their voices echoed eerily through the empty space, flapping around his head like bats. His children. His babies. What was this place? What were they doing here, and how was he going to get them out?  
"It's all right!" he called franticly. "It's all right! I'm coming!" His own voice joined the echoes that swelled around him in the darkness. Then another, softer voice could be heard; it seemed almost to brush his cheek as it whispered past.  
"Mark. Mark." Oh God, Bridget! Where was she? Was she with the children? If he could just see where he was.  
"Mark." Something warmed brushed his face; he blinked, straining to see in the darkness. Terrified though he was, he found the sensation oddly soothing against his skin.  
"Mark, it's all right. Hush. It's all right. Wake up. Mark, wake up." His body gave a violent jolt, and he opened his eyes to find himself lying on the living-room sofa. Bridget knelt beside him, her arms wound around him, her lips on his brow.  
"Bridget? I—what—"  
"Hush. It's all right. I got worried when you didn't come up to bed." Trembling, Mark sat up, brushing a hand across his eyes as if to erase the vision that swam before them. "I must have fallen asleep." Bridget sat down on the sofa beside him. "It was another dream, wasn't it?" Mark nodded. At the brush of her skin against his, his anger and frustration melted away. As he had done so many nights in recent weeks, he pulled her into his arms, allowing her solid presence to anchor him in the moment.  
"I'm sorry," he whispered into her hair.  
"It's all right," Bridget reassured him, tracing slow, rhythmic circles on his back with the palm of her hand. "If anything, I'm the one who should be sorry. All those things I said to you before—they must have brought it all back."  
Mark swallowed. "Maybe, but I can't entirely blame you for saying them. We were going to have to talk about all of it eventually. I certainly haven't been entertaining any illusions that things would just return to normal. How can they?"  
Bridget sighed and rested her head against his chest. "I don't know. I wanted to talk to you about everything, but whenever I looked at you, I just saw this empty, haunted look in your eyes, and it was like losing you all over again, because you weren't really here. I felt like I couldn't understand or relate to the depth of your suffering, and I didn't know what I could say or do to bring you back to me."  
Mark tightened his hold on her. "Tell me you forgive me."  
"Forgive you?" Gently disentangling herself, Bridget cupped his face in her hands and looked directly into his eyes. "Forgive you for sacrificing everything to fight for what you believe is right? Forgive you for being a brave, strong, noble man who I'm proud to call my husband and the father of my children? Forgive you for that?"  
The corners of Mark's mouth twitched in a reluctant attempt at a smile. "If it's not too much to ask." Bridget studied his face for a long moment, lips pursed. Then she leaned forward and locked her mouth on his. When they finally broke apart, Mark was smiling broadly.  
"I think you've made yourself quite clear."  
"Good," said Bridget. "I thought you were going to make me spell it out."  
"Hmm, I wonder what that would entail," murmured Mark, pulling her close again.  
"Mummy? Daddy?" Quickly Mark and Bridget jumped apart and glanced toward the top of the stairs, where Mabel stood gazing down at them inquisitively.  
"Mabel, what are you doing out of bed?" asked Bridget.  
"I got up to go to the toilet and I heard you and Daddy talking. You sounded sad," she added, turning her large eyes on her father.  
"It's all right, Mabel," Mark said gently. "You can come down." Her face splitting into a smile, Mabel scurried down the stairs. Stopping in front of her parents, she scrutinized Mark's face.  
"Daddy," she said solemnly, "did you have a bad dream?"  
Mark blinked in surprise. "How on earth did you work that out?"  
"Because," said Bridget, smiling at both of them, "you look exactly like Billy does after he wakes up from a nightmare, all rumpled and confused."  
Mabel climbed into Mark's lap and slid her arms around his neck. "I didn't know daddies could have bad dreams."  
"Sometimes we do," he said quietly, stroking her head.  
"Hey, what's going on?" Billy was trudging down the stairs, tousle-haired and bleary-eyed. "Mummy, are we having a pajama party?"  
"I suppose we are," said Bridget, making room for him to climb up on the sofa beside her.  
"Daddy had a bad dream," piped up Mabel.  
"Hush, Mabel," said Mark, gently placing a finger over her lips.  
"Oh, don't worry," laughed Bridget, rolling her eyes. "I don't think the occasional nightmare will demote you from superhero status in your son's eyes."  
"No," Billy said with Markish solemnity. "Because what's the point of being a superhero if there isn't any scary stuff to make you show how brave you are?" Mark smiled. "Besides," continued Billy, fixing his father with his identical, intense brown stare, "all the thoughts are going away, just like the little birds in their nests—"  
"And the rabbits in their rabbit holes," recited Mabel. "The thoughts don't need Daddy tonight."  
"The world will turn without him," whispered Bridget, slipping her arms around Mark again and pulling his head to her breast. Mabel linked her fingers through Mark's, and Billy reached out and laid his hand on his father's shoulder. Billy's and Mabel's voices blended in with their mother's as they continued. "The moon will shine without him." Mark closed his eyes and snuggled closer to Bridget, dimly feeling the brush of her lips against his forehead as he drifted off. "And all Daddy needs to do is rest and sleep."

The End

Notes  
1\. "I'll be Seein' You," the song from which I quoted lyrics in this story, was originally written in 1938 with music by Sammy Fain and Lyrics by Irving Kahal. While I was reading MATB, every time Mabel mentioned the moon, I kept hearing the version of the song by Jimmy Durante which features on the movie soundtrack to "The Notebook". I thought the lyrics spoke really well to Mark and Bridget.  
2\. As far as I know (or as far as I've Googled, anyway) there really is no British Embassy in Equatorial Guinae.  
3\. I took the "bedtime verse" from MATB; Bridget tells us that Mark made it up, and anyway, I didn't think Helen Fielding would mind. Also, random factoid: as I wrote Mark's letter, I pictured Mr. Darcy writing to Elizabeth (BBC incarnation, obviously), so I have to credit Mr. Firth with unwittingly lending a helping hand to the tone of solemnity I intended to convey, as it was his voice that inspired that idea. 


End file.
